Chapter Twenty: The Midnight Inspector
"Sometimes, your biggest sale isn't a sale at all—it's a test served with chili, blankets, and judgment."
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"This inspector is taking a long time to get here," I sighed, leaning back in my creaky wooden chair. The shop groaned with me, like two old men fed up with bureaucracy.
"Do you think they got lost, Kuya Pepito?" Marikit asked, wiping down the counter with the focus of a kid hoping for a gold star. The cloth squeaked in rhythm, like it was keeping time with our slow-burning impatience.
"I doubt it," I replied, frowning. "The road from the main port is straight as a sword. They're just taking their time, Pinoy bureaucracy-style."
Outside, the sky looked like a crime scene—smears of orange, bruised purples, and the last rays of sun bleeding into the bay. Somewhere at the Sarimanook welcome dock, Lakanbini Susan was probably still standing, regal and silently furious, like a queen waiting for a guest who ghosted her.
Then—CLANG—the evening bell rang. One long, reverberating bong from the town center, marking the end of the day.
"Well, guess they're not coming today either," I muttered. "You can pack up, Marikit."
"You too, Kuya!" she chirped. "Are you heading home?"
"I'll wait a bit more, just in case." Honestly, it was stubbornness now. Or maybe pride.
"I'll stay with you then!"
"Nope." I raised the "I'm serious, don't test me" eyebrow. "Your mom will summon lightning."
She groaned, pouted, but complied, waving goodbye as she skipped out the door, calling "Bye-bye, Kuya Pepito!" like a chant to ward off boredom.
I waited. One hour. Then two.
The sun dipped beneath the water. The streets dissolved into shadows. No lanterns, no movement—just the occasional bark of a dog and the deep breathing of the sea.
And then—
A silhouette at the door.
Tall. Composed. Mysterious.
A woman stepped inside, gliding more than walking. Leather armor, scuffed but cared for. Traveler's boots. Hair tied back. Calm eyes that didn't miss a thing.
"Hello," she said, voice steady and cool as a mountain spring. "Is this the shop?"
Technically unnamed, but fully operational. "It is. Welcome."
She relaxed slightly, just a flicker of tension dissolving. "I'm glad you're still open."
"You're an adventurer?" I asked, slipping into merchant mode like a well-worn jacket.
"Not exactly." Her answer was vague—but confident. "A friend told me about this place. I wanted to see for myself."
"Feel free to browse," I gestured to the shelves. "If you've got questions, I've got answers. Most of them useful."
"I'll take you up on that." She smiled slightly. Not friendly. Not unfriendly. Neutral. Calculated.
She moved through the shop like she was mapping it in her mind. Then stopped at the lighter display.
"These are the ones?" she asked. The awe in her voice was barely hidden.
"Yup." Flick. Flame. Boom. "Our bestseller."
She flicked one herself. Fire bloomed instantly.
"Incredible," she murmured.
Then: "What's this?" She held up the foil-like rectangle I kept near the lighters.
"Survival blanket," I explained. "Keeps you warm. Packs small. Makes you look like a baked potato."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Try it."
She did.
And froze.
"It's… warm. Ridiculously warm."
"Told you," I grinned. "Perfect for cold nights or sudden downpours. Or sleeping near suspicious caves."
I was on a roll. Time to bring out the ace.
"Also—free taste?" I said, sliding out a small cup of instant Arroz Caldo from behind the counter like it was a secret weapon. "Shelf-stable. Ginger chicken. Filipino classic. Great for travel. Or heartbreak."
She eyed it suspiciously, then took a spoonful.
Silence.
Then: "This… is shockingly good."
I beamed. "Five-year shelf life. Zero regrets."
She chuckled. Soft. Controlled.
We spent the next two hours going over every product. Lighters. Blankets. Mosquito charms. Foldable utensils. A mini waterproof Bible. Every time she asked a question, it was sharp, practical, technical. Like she was filling out a mental checklist. The kind that ends in a report.
When we finally reached the end, she nodded once.
"Thank you for your time. I must be going now."
And she left.
Without buying anything.
Not. A. Single. Thing.
I stared at the door, defeated. My shop smelled like ginger, firestone, and frustration.
"A total waste of time," I muttered.
Except… it wasn't.
Her precise questions. Her professional poise. The way she tested things with expert care. Her vague origin story. A friend told her. Wanted to 'see for herself.'
My eyes widened.
That wasn't a late-night shopper.
That wasn't a curious traveler.
That was…
THE INSPECTOR.
And I had just fed her instant porridge, demoed a mosquito charm, and spent two hours wearing pambahay slippers and peak retail enthusiasm.
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